Part 1 — Something Was Missing From Earl
I’m seventy years old, retired, and a widower.
Six years ago, I lost my wife, Nancy.
We had spent more than three decades in the same little suburban house, and after she was gone, I discovered just how much sound one person could take with her.
The kitchen became quieter.
The evenings became longer.
Even the old wooden floors seemed to creak differently.
People sometimes assume retirement means doing nothing, especially when you’re my age.
I suppose Clark, my neighbor, believed that too.
But I never thought of myself as someone who simply sat around waiting for another day to pass.
Every Thursday, I picked up groceries for Mrs. Patterson, an eighty-two-year-old widow who lived near the corner.
If somebody needed a refrigerator hauled away, lumber picked up, or a piece of furniture moved, I was usually the man they called.
Twice a month, I helped our church pantry collect donated boxes.
And most of those errands involved Earl.
Earl was my 1996 Ford F-150.
Once upon a time, the truck had been dark green. Thirty years of weather had faded the paint, the driver’s seat had a patch of silver duct tape across one side, and the passenger window needed encouragement before it would roll all the way up.
